Who's the Boss?
Most notably, every time I get lunch from the falafel cart downstairs from my office, I am called "boss":
"How's it going, boss?"
"What would you like, boss?"
"Here you go, boss."
"Have a good one, boss."
Why am I the boss? You run the cart, you're the boss of yourself. I suppose it's an expression of respect for your customers, but you tell me how much to pay, and I pay you. I never boss you around. Quite often, you put hot sauce on my platter when I only want white sauce. You call the shots, not me.
In fact, since I've never been in a hiring situation, I've never known anyone who could possibly call me "boss." You can't mistake me for any boss, really. I may be Italian, but I don't bear a resemblance to John Gotti. I'm not a giant green lizard hovering on a bridge over lava, like Bowser. I've never said, "yeeah, if you could go ahead and get me a gyro platter, that would be grreat." And I don't believe I ever ran Tammany Hall in the 1860s.
I've been told I look like Tony Danza, so maybe that could be it. But I'm no "boss." Maybe next time I'll greet Falafel Cart Guy by saying, "yo, Angela!"